Carolinas Caper

This is a long tale in seven parts, meant to be read at leisure.

Part 1

I was deep in thought as I strode down the hallway to the office restroom, grappling with the morning's problems...the little, unexpected bureaucratic ones that always seem to crop up each day. I was so engrossed that I almost didn't see her, a slim – though very curvy – African-American woman in a tightly fitted light blue sleeveless dress that lent much credit to her dark chocolate complexion. She apparently had seen me, though, and felt compelled to hug the opposite wall to avoid me running into her. She walked daintily...almost on tiptoe, as I blundered on. I looked up just before colliding with her and she murmured, "Hi!" flashing a stunning smile.

"Hi," I mumbled, still preoccupied, until I focused on her. Then I said, "Whoa, Hi! How're you doin' today?" after being struck by her facial beauty...and that of the rest of her.

"Just fine, thank you," she said, and passed me, continuing to walk sensuously like a cat, her toes seeming to touch the floor first. I spun around after she passed, watching her, and continued walking backward a few paces until I reached the men's john, where I backed into my office mate, Joe, who was coming out the door.

"Whoa, man!" he said, then looked down the hall at the disappearing young woman. He grinned, took a pull on his pipe, and cackled, "So that's what you were looking at! I'm not surprised!"

Joe was just my temporary office mate, a psychologist who'd been instrumental in me getting my job at the institute where he worked. It was late in the year 1970, and I'd recently scored a grant through the U.S. government to train young people from inner city ghettos – "black" youth they were then called – for individual careers, by fast-tracking them through intensive, job-specific programs. I'd allied myself with the institute, and – since I'd brought a large sum of grant money into its think tank – top management was in the process of finding me a permanent office.

"

That

was Carolina Brown," he said, leering at me as I got back to the office.

"So, what's her story?" I asked, turning back to my tasks.

"Master's degree and a Teaching Credential, from Detroit...Wayne State," he responded. "Very bright. Divorced, coupla kids, I hear, staying back there with her mother."

"Nice to look at," I offered, my mind not really on what Joe was saying.

"Careful, son," he said. "She's a power freak. She'll turn you every way but loose."

I looked up and saw that he'd meant what he said, since he'd fixed me with a no-nonsense look that was rare for him, replacing his usual grin with pipe clenched between his teeth. Joe's ancillary job, it seemed, was to gather as much information about the women in the office as he could, and dispense the knowledge to those he favored. Horny old dog, I thought to myself about the married 48-year-old, 18 years my senior. I should talk. My own sex life was lurid enough, since I was obsessed with women, especially the more exotic ones. Minutes later I'd forgotten about his warning...and then Carolina walked in after tapping lightly at the open door.

"Hi, Joe," she cooed, in a faux sincere tone, and walked in to lean toward him on both hands over the front of his desk. She'd done this before, I sensed, on more than one occasion. My desk faced his, though separated by six feet or so, and was set off at about 45 degrees from his in the big office.

I returned to my work: detailed recruitment criteria for people who were going to staff my project. Joe and Carolina conversed in hushed tones, no doubt because of my presence. Though I was very busy my mind soon lost its focus on work. My gaze followed the attractive black woman's movements as she bent her knee closest to me, leaving her empty high heel on the carpet while lifting her calf, and began to scratch the back of her other knee with her foot. I watched as the maroon-painted nail of her big toe worried one particularly troublesome spot, her pose spreading the six-inch kick slit on the back of her blue dress. She wore no hosiery, and I was mesmerized by the pale, light tan sole of her well-formed foot. Through the slit I saw that her upper legs were smooth and supple, though well developed – not unlike those of a former athlete – and unblemished in their dark color.

It was one of those dreamlike instants that a bachelor might muse about in a free moment, when he's kindling fanciful, sensuous feminine images, as opposed to thinking about some rudimentary task during the workday. Regardless, I continued my staring, and followed the line of her thighs up past her high, muscular butt, then up her back to her beauteous profile and her short, straightened hairdo, parted casually in the middle, that ended at her neck. Though I have a good suntan for a white guy, I'm sure I blushed as she caught me undressing her with my eyes and riveted me with a gaze over her left shoulder. Her look indicated that she knew I'd liked what I'd seen. The ensuing silence was deadly as our eyes met, like the second just before a thunderclap.

"So, this is the new boy wonder!" she exclaimed suddenly, returning her foot to its shoe and then turning her back to Joe, though again grasping the edge of his desk, hands slightly behind her at her sides. Her stance highlighted her high breasts, probably a generous B-cup – maybe larger – protruding nicely over a perfectly flat tummy, and accented her thighs, their slopes gently curved to perfection. It's as if she were posing to give me total visual access, this time to the front of her body. "I'm Carolina Brown," she finally said, taking a couple of steps toward me and extending her hand.

I stood quickly and said, "Umm, Richard, call me Rick." She looked to be about 5'8" in her heels, as opposed to my 6'2".

"Oh, I think it should be 'Dr. Pederson', shouldn't it, 'umm, Richard, call me Rick'?" she said, looking coyly up at me and pointedly making fun of my discomfiture, then scorching me with her large brown eyes.

"That's a...a new title," I said, modestly, referring to my recently conferred doctorate. Then I sat back down.

"Better use it, baby," she said, sounding cynically Machiavellian. "Most of the ol' Ph.D.s around here've never brought in as much money as you have."

Was that a slam at Joe? I wondered. And how did she know? "Couldn't have done it without these guys," I said, especially for his ears. He didn't appear offended by her remark, but rather was amused, drawing slowly on his pipe and leaning back in his chair, grinning as he watched Carolina toy with me as one would a virgin poker player.

"Staffed your project yet?" she asked, giving me the impression that she already knew the answer. Apparently the drumbeat had already reverberated throughout the institute about my recent success, and Carolina was merely the first to check the veracity of its message.

"No, I'm just finishing the detailed formula," I said.

"Well, I'd like to see how you're coming," she said. "I've got a half hour at the end of the day. I'll see you at 4:30, okay?" she said, presumptuously.

"Okay," I responded, hesitantly, at her aggressive attitude.

"Bye for now," Carolina trilled, waggling her fingers in the air as she left, walking with that toe-first catlike stride that made her hips and high butt swish softly, forward and back, like two velvet sofa pillows. She walks as if she's fucking, I thought, lewdly.

At exactly 4:30 she tapped on the door and glided in. Joe had left early, since he was having an ongoing affair with a very attractive, married, Research Associate overseeing his project. Pulling a side chair up to my desk, Carolina faced me. The hem of her blue dress stretched over a taut thigh as she crossed her chocolate legs, swinging the top one languidly in the age-old rhythm that has always driven office-bound males to distraction. "So, tell me about 'the formula'," she said, with an amused look in her flashing eyes.

"Well, as you know – working in a federally funded think tank – I'll need a number of black people as line administrators on the project."

"Got anybody in mind?" she asked, leaning forward and resting her chin on one hand with its index finger pointing upward along her cheek. Her lovely dark, oval face was framed like a pixie with her rather short, shiny black hair.

"A few," I said. "Grad students I know...and guys I was with in the Army."

"You gonna hire brothas?" she asked, seemingly surprised, using the street term in addition to its accompanying accent. "Ex-G.I.s?" Her large wide eyes had extremely long lashes. Her finely boned nose was narrow and almost aquiline, ending in a tip that she'd inherited from a non-black ancestor. Her elegant ivory teeth shone between her full, pouting lips, on this day tinted with dark pink lipstick.

As I sat there, drinking her in, I realized the difficulty I was having in keeping my mind on the conversation. "Well, yeah," I said. "They've got leadership experience...and vets are good role models."

"Lemme see your job descriptions," she said, exasperatedly, and got up to walk behind my desk to stand next to me. Her left hip touched my upper arm and I pushed the stack of paper toward her. Her hand touched mine and static electricity from her movement on the carpet caused a palpable spark. "Mmnn, sorry," she said, acknowledging the inadvertent galvanic touch.

I didn't care. Her hip was all that mattered, which she didn't move. If anything, she increased its pressure against my shoulder. I felt her heat. I smelled her sweet fragrance. I also felt my face warming and an erection forming in my pants as she scanned the papers, leafing through them one-by-one.

"Are you interested in one of the positions?" I asked, stating the obvious next question.

"Lemme put it this way, sweet cheeks," she said, lapsing into a smooth, southern drawl. "First, I'm already workin' here, which means y'all gotta consider me before lookin' outside. Second, if you're lookin' to hire black vets just 'cuz they're vets, they'll end up ruinin' the project, probably 'cuz o' dope. Third, under this placid, girlish exterior, darlin', there's an experienced educator just waitin' for her big chance...to show you what she can do." Her last statement was punctuated by a quick thrust of her hip against my shoulder...for emphasis. "Furthermore," she said, pulling away to lean a hand on the corner of my desk and articulating her words perfectly, without a trace of an accent, "...our culture is matriarchal. Women run it." At this point her body was forming a long, easy, "S," in a comfortable sideways curve, and facing me from only two feet away as she made her point. I tried to keep my eyes on her face.

"I know a little about your culture," I said. "But, I hope to do my part in bringing black men back into the family mix, like any good liberal would." I watched for a reaction to this. Her elegant ivory teeth shone slightly between her full pink lips. Her chin was vulpine, with a hint of a cleft. "Since you've shown an interest, though, let me think about it," I said. "These kids, our prospective students, are pretty tough, you know. They could cause you a lot of trouble," I continued, sounding like the archetypal whitey.

"Let me worry about that," she offered, folding her arms under her breasts. "I can handle any

brotha

alive," she boasted, spitting out the label contemptuously. I was struck by the apparent antipathy she harbored toward males of her own race as I continued to look at her. The rich, dark brown skin on her face and neck, plus on her bare, lightly muscled arms and hands, had a healthy sheen to it that attested to years of devotion to expensive beauty products. Then she changed the subject: "Incidentally, Nancy – you know, that white girl up in publishing – is havin' a cocktail party on Saturday. You goin'?" she asked.

"Don't know. Hadn't heard about it," I confessed. I was brand new on the job and, though the buzz was out that a new, single, white Ph.D. was in the office – and feminine smiles were easy to come by in the hallways – no one had extended a social hand to me.

"Well, you have now...an' you're goin' with me. Okay?" Carolina asked, watching closely for a hint of hesitation. There was none. I'd never been a racist, and had enjoyed dating women of other ethnic groups for years. Aside from my Asian military experience and university social life, one of my most lustful memories centered on a coffee-colored cheerleader who had entertained me for hours on the back seat of a '54 Chevy one Spring night in high school. This brief flashback, combined with Carolina's beauty and audacity, had put a small but sincere smile on my face. Whether she understood it, I couldn't tell.

"Sure. Give me your address and number, and I'll pick you up at...what...seven?" I asked.

"Perfect, Rick," Carolina said, relaxing a bit and reverting to being sexy. She wrote down the information and, glancing at her watch, said, "Mmm, gotta go now. See y'all Saturday, sugar," she oozed, sashaying out. I grinned at her southern pronunciation of the word "shug-ahh."

Part 2

The party was a bit stiff. The hostess had gone to a Seven Sisters college in the northeast and there was a sprinkling of those oh-so-proper folks, male and female, who held their wineglasses by their bases as they exchanged cocktail party trivia. Nearly the entire institute staff was there, though, spilling out onto the patio and garden in the unseasonably warm night. And I was kept very busy, meeting them all. Carolina saw to that.

Making no secret of who'd accompanied her, she stuck to me like glue. Picking her – our – spot to stand close to two main intersecting rooms in the concave curve of a small grand piano, she acted the part of secondary hostess or greeter. Most of the guests had to pass close by us. Dressed in blazer and slacks, I looked rather run-of-the-mill. Carolina, however, had prepared herself well. Her legs – long for her height – were clothed in black silk pants, tightly fitted to her outstanding butt and hips, then razor creased down straight, cuffed legs to show bright red painted nails peeking from black, ankle-strap heels. On top she wore a long-sleeved silk blouse with an open neck. Its pattern consisted of black, green and red splashes of color – the hues one associates with sub-Saharan Africa – with a hint of gold.

Her face was a beautician's dream. Perfectly done, very dark red blush on her cheekbones was complemented by a lip gloss of bright red to match her nails. Mascara on her lashes made them look an inch long, and her eyelids were dusted with shadow the same color as the dark blush, with a hint of what looked like gold dust. She wore small gold studs in her ears and a large-linked gold necklace around her dainty neck. The open collar of her blouse drew my eyes constantly to the fine bones of her clavicle. Her appearance was stunning, and was much appreciated by the male guests as the evening wore on.

The women reacted differently. Each time one engaged me in conversation, Carolina would link her arm through mine and press a thigh against me, looking up at me fondly as if I were dispensing the wisdom of an oracle. I was uncomfortable with what seemed to be a cunning motive behind her public show of affection toward me, particularly when she grabbed my hand and stretched up to breathe in my ear, "Gotta go to the ladies' room, Rick. Back soon." She tarried a few seconds more for effect on those around us, batting her lashes against my cheek and smiling as if we were sharing an intimate secret. "Watch out for these horny bitches!" she whispered in breath like honey, and turned to go, lifting my hand up toward her as we separated.

I continued to socialize, talking to the institute librarian, a slightly overweight white woman in her late twenties whose wine consumption had made it easy for her to ask me: "So, when're you gonna take me to lunch?" As I finessed her bold question, I began to look around for a savior and saw Carolina. She was speaking with some people across the room. She saw the woman hitting on me and beamed, giving me a finger-wiggling wave as she continued her conversation.

Joe's beautiful, brunette Research Associate, Linda, about 28 – there without her husband – also talked with me for a while. "Enjoy being in the spotlight?" she asked.

"Is that what this hot, tingly feeling is?" I asked, being openly suggestive with her since she and Joe had used my apartment near the institute for their lunch hour trysts. I leaned down at her and whispered, "I've smelled your perfume on my sheets...more than once."

"You'd better be careful," she said. "A lot of people are watching you, very closely." Like Carolina, though white, Linda struck me as a very perceptive, ambitious woman on the way up who would do anything to further her career...or the number of notches on her bedpost.

Joe then stopped by, causing Linda to drift away since she was anxious to avoid her lover's spouse. Joe introduced me to his wife and a couple of other attractive female employees in another department. One was Sarah, a thinly built former Peace Corps volunteer in Kenya who boldly asked me to accompany her to a new museum exhibit in town. The other was Rita, a tall, willowy, large-breasted Native American/Hispanic woman whose penetrating dark-eyed gaze seemed to melt all of my self-conscious defenses. There appeared to be a large population of women on-the-make, who were dying to do much more than meet and merely exchange pleasantries.

Then, an informally clad young woman in her mid-twenties stepped up to me and introduced herself as Leola. She was dressed in a dark green long-sleeved turtleneck sweater and matching corduroy jeans, both of which were skin tight. Her flawless skin was the color of

café au lait

, and her figure was breathtaking...as good as any beauty queen. She looked to be a quadroon. She had a short, barely black "natural" hairdo, and light hazel eyes behind glasses with rectangular black plastic frames. She oozed sexual energy and I was immediately taken with her. After a quick biographical exchange, she murmured, "So, when are we going out?"

"Huh?" I asked, dumbly.

"You heard me!" she flashed, slightly more loudly. "If we don't, you'll never know what you're missing!"

"Uhh...I think maybe...," I said, though was interrupted as Carolina walked to my side and linked arms with me. She'd seen Leola and me meet and, after a few minutes, had extricated herself from her conversation to stride across the room and reclaim me.

"Lee-o-la!" she seethed, her voice dripping with saccharine, potential invective that made me shudder. "You look so slick tonight! Now," she hissed, "you wouldn't be hustlin' my date, would you, li'l sista?"

"Uh-uh, girl," Leola said, breaking her continuing, unblinking look at me through light, feline eyes to acknowledge Carolina with a quick glance. Looking right back at me and flaring her nostrils, she said, "Givin' 'im a li'l sniff. You know how I jus' looove white boys!"

I felt much like an unattached woman must feel when two horny, alpha men begin parrying over who is going to win the privilege of going home with the catch of the day. "'Scuse me, ladies," I muttered, finally tired of it all, "I've gotta get some air," and left them both to walk outside onto the patio. I lit a cigarette – a habit that I'd not yet broken – and walked toward the totally dark corner of the garden, which was now empty of partying guests. In moments I heard the click of high heels on the patio, then silence as Carolina caught up to me on the grass near the house's adjoining garage.

"Sorry 'bout that, Rick," she said. "But that high yella bitch an' her friends are always givin' me shit!"

Fed up with the whole game, I groped for a reason to relieve my tension, saying, "It may surprise you, Carolina, but I get really pissed off when I hear racist labels, especially from educated black people!"